Heart of the Enemy
by Leafdiaries
Summary: AU Seiran x Kouchou Modern: Current Black Wolf Seiran must improvise an escape from his current mission, but he can't tell if the babe in red stilettos is a gift from the gods or the devil incarnate. SMUT warnings abound. It's Seiran and Kouchou after all
1. Escape

Someone fucked up.

Seiran Shi crouched atop an elevator crawling down the greasy innards of a five-star hotel in Atlantic City. He hated grease and he hated Atlantic City. One was too dirty and the other too slick. Which was which was a toss up.

Dirt made him sick to his stomach. He swore he'd never be dirty again after surviving the stinkhole he'd been imprisoned in as a child. Still, being dirty, and not just on the surface, came with the job.

Despite his considerable revulsion, he locked one arm around the oily cable that lowered the elevator rapidly to the basement parking garage. His other hand desperately clung to a black 9mm Beretta, his index finger twitching against the trigger like it was a woman's clit ready to climax. The metal barrel, still warm from overuse, winked at him under the garishly bright yellow light in the elevator shaft. That lady had saved his ass more times than he could remember, tonight included, so she deserved a nice stroking.

He smirked. Someone fucked up, all right. He was still alive.

Before the elevator touched bottom, Seiran rose like a coiled cobra, ready to strike. He secured his pistol in his ankle holster, freeing him for his next move. If _he_ didn't fuck up, he'd get out of the building without firing another shot. Once he got out though, he would have to improvise. The original extraction plan incinerated in a blaze of gunfire, and now he was on his own. Someone had betrayed him—someone with top clearance, someone with juice. That someone was as good as dead. _He_ wouldn't fuck up.

Seiran leapt onto the frame above the shaft door, clinging to the smooth, cold metal with the tips of his manicured fingers and the toes of his gloss-black Versace shoes. He shimmied quickly across the frame and stretched across a chasm to reach a metal ladder that led to the shaft floor. He wedged his body into the small space between the back of the ladder and the shaft wall, and waited.

Through a sliver of space between the elevator car and the shaft door, he caught a glimpse of two thugs still alive to pursue him, exiting the car into the garage. The other three that had been with them, whom Seiran's sweet lady Beretta had taken care of, had simply been meat shields for these guys.

This was a bad lot, killing their own, but that was nothing new to Seiran. Obviously, the people supposedly on his side were no better. That prick Shou would sell out his own mother if he hadn't been spawned straight from hell. The only reason Seiran hadn't slit his throat already was because his brother Ryuuki wouldn't let him.

For the time being, Seiran allowed Ryuuki to have his way, but his kid brother wasn't cut out for this bullshit business. He trusted too much. He was a good kid. A good man. He still had hope. He was trying to make things right for their family, so they'd have a future despite all their father had done to destroy everything. If anyone could do it, Ryuuki could, but he had to survive. Seiran lived to make sure of that. Truthfully, Seiran admitted, if he had to betray everyone he knew to ensure his brother's safety, he wouldn't blink an eye.

He smiled, imagining Ryuuki's gentle face, and bowed his head against the cold steel ladder. He felt the ascending elevator brush lightly past his fingers gripping the ladder. Once the elevator was out of the way, he'd climb down and exit the shaft through the maintenance entrance out to the garage and to…what?

_One fucked-up plot at a time, Black Wolf. Get out of here first._


	2. Hunt

Seiran cursed under his breath and gritted his teeth as he lay on his back under an SUV in the parking garage. Another expensive tux gone to hell, smeared in grease and filth. He sighed. At least it wasn't blood this time.

He reached up into the guts of the engine and found a small wire leading to the starter. With a flick of his wrist, his pocket knife severed the wire, disabling the ignition.

_That should slow them down a little, _he smirked.

After making his way to the parking garage, he had skulked through the shadows along the edges of the weak halos cast by the overhead light fixtures. He moved from vehicle to vehicle, waiting for his opportunity to escape the security force guarding the garage. In the meantime, he availed himself of the chance to cripple as many of their vehicles as his intelligence had marked and that he could reach without being detected.

As he had calculated, the decimated numbers of security men on the upper levels, all casualties of his attack, required nearly the entire garage security contingent to be called up to replace their fallen brothers. Only a small group remained, including the two thugs who had pursued him down the elevator.

He tipped his head back where he lay on the ground and watched the upside-down view of his pursuers' scuffed dress shoes pacing back and forth, not 30 feet away from him. One was talking on his cell, so Seiran took the opportunity forced on him to listen in.

"I'm telling you, he's not in the damn garage," the thug complained. "We've been over every inch of the place, twice. He's still up there somewhere, and you know who he's targeting."

Seiran rolled his eyes. Dimwits. He wanted to kill them just because it was too embarrassing to be running from morons. Unfortunately, dead bodies lying around the parking garage of a posh hotel might get people talking, even in Atlantic City. Leaving corpses all over the banquet hall upstairs was dangerous enough. Still, he knew all traces of their existence would be erased by whatever hand was secretly pulling all these strings.

"Yeah, well, he got the others, all of them," the thug continued vehemently. "If you know what's good for you, you'll get your asses out of there and leave _him_ to us."

Seiran nearly groaned out loud and rolled his eyes.

As he saw the scuffed shoes walk away at a quick clip heading for the elevator, he took his chance to roll onto his stomach and position himself to attack or to run, depending on what happened next. He waited, watching, calculating all the possible scenarios he could imagine.

The elevator doors opened, and instead of the dimwits going up, a bustling, noisy crowd of people got off. He strained to make out the high-pitched, panicked words that were exchanged, but they were too far away and chaotic to understand. Experience, however, told him that this level of activity and urgency meant movement of an important person. His mark, his final remaining target for this mission, the one that got away, was most likely now leaving the hotel under heavy security, slipping from his sites.

Yet, if he could catch a glimpse of his target, then he wouldn't count the mission a total loss. Part of the reason this target had eluded him when none of the others had was because Seiran didn't know whom he was looking for. He only knew that his mark was the heir to one of the largest crime syndicate families in the world, and that his identity had been closely guarded since the day he was born. His infamous father had recently died, and the kid had inherited the family business, just like Ryuuki had inherited their father's business and just as he himself had inherited his adopted father's work as the Black Wolf.

However, unlike them, this heir had yet to make himself known on the scene. Tonight was to be his debut during a major convention for the tourism industry under which many of the crime families operated as legitimate businesses. If Seiran had been successful, it should have been the kid's curtain call, too, right along with the others he'd taken down tonight.

Either luck or tonight's double-cross had saved him, but it was just a matter of time. Seiran was too thorough, or OCD as the shrinks at the penitentiary called it, to let him slip away for too long. Too bad this kid didn't have a big brother watching out for him like Ryuuki did. Too damn bad.

At that point, the elevators opened again, and everyone, including the two thugs, scrambled back onto the cars. The doors closed and the garage was silent. Seiran blinked and frowned, the gears of his mind whirring into action.

_What the hell? What would cause them all to abandon the garage security? _Seiran's mind cranked into overdrive to determine what was going on. He wondered if they weren't just circling the wagons around their young boss to fortify his personal security. _Good luck with that,_ he smirked.

He waited silently for a few more minutes, his eyes on the elevators, but nothing happened. He determined that it had to be past 3 a.m. now, and even in Atlantic City, the hotel traffic died off eventually. Seiran exhaled and relaxed his tense muscles.

So, his mark had generously and foolishly decided to remain at the hotel, giving him another shot at his neck, literally. With a bloodthirsty quirk of his lips, the assassin decided he and his deadly lady would take another ride on the elevator, too. He'd hate to disappoint the dimwits.

With an eager grin, he slid out from under the truck and bumped into a pair of the tallest, reddest stiletto heels he'd ever gotten up close and personal with, and there had been a few.

He caught his breath when he heard a trigger cock above his head. His muscles coiled instantly.

_Fuck._


	3. Trap

Seiran choked down the clot of air rolling down his throat the wrong way. The click of the trigger cocking echoed noisily in the quiet garage. He cautiously lifted his eyes upward to catch some clue about his opponent, who held him at gunpoint but hadn't fired.

"I'd hate to bloody that pretty silver hair," said a melodious voice accented with a playful touch of humor. Its glittery elegance struck Seiran as oddly incongruous with mentions of blood.

"No need for a gun here," he assured her quickly, remaining perfectly still. _Three seconds,_ he calculated. That's all he needed to silence that beguiling voice permanently.

_Now, wouldn't that be a damn shame, _he thought, and his eyes rolled up from the glossy red pumps to delicately tapering ankles, curving into long, willowy, silk-stockinged legs.

"A lady on her own needs protection from lecherous men, you know," she added smoothly.

In the split second he'd spent assessing her threat level, he'd been caught off guard by the pointed toe of her red shoe lightly rubbing against his cheek. The arrowed tip shifted to stroke under strands of his long, silver locks that straggled on the parking lot asphalt. A lazy shiver hummed down the back of his neck.

"I dropped something under the truck and crawled under to retrieve it," he explained with a fake sheepishness in his voice. "I apologize if I startled you."

"You didn't. I saw you from over there…your hair…" she explained.

_Careless_, he berated himself and listened intently for the reassuring release of the cocked trigger, but it never came.

"You have the hair of an angel. Is it natural?" she asked, lifting her foot slightly and letting his hair cascade across her skin and back onto the ground. He heard a soft sigh. "Silk," she whispered the single word as if she murmured her lover's name.

She was fucking with him. He smirked. He really had the worst timing for this kind of thing. He figured he'd better disarm her, though, one way or another.

"There's only one way to know for sure," he baited her and prepared for a myriad of possible responses, including a bullet hurtling at his head.

Instead, the point of her crimson shoe wedged under his chin and tipped it up until the muscles in his neck strained. The most beautiful woman he had ever seen smiled down at him for no more than a few seconds and then released his chin. His eyes briefly flickered to the small, black revolver directed at his head. A point blank shot would likely kill him, but he wouldn't give her that chance. Getting hit anywhere else would be survivable.

Despite the gun's proximity, he decided that the fact that she hadn't killed him yet meant she had something else in mind. He considered her threat level relatively low and was more concerned about the dimwits returning while he was in this unexpectedly vulnerable position.

"Taunting a woman with a gun," she remarked as she strolled down the length of his body. "I must have captured a _dark_ angel. How enticing."

He listened to her heels clicking softly on the pavement, almost as if she were gliding over it. When he no longer heard the heel clicks, he turned his head.

"Don't move!" she raised her voice in a stern tone and kicked his feet.

His eyebrows crept up as he turned his face forward again. A curious grin tugged at his lips. This was either going to be very good or very scary. Either way, he opted to remain at her mercy until he could determine a quiet way to de-escalate the situation, whether by force or favor.

"You like playing dangerous games, it seems," she observed, her voice drawling in a suggestive tone that could not be mistaken. "I'll play with you, angel boy," she purred and her voice poured over him like warm honey.

The toe of her shoe hooked around his ankle and dragged his legs apart. If she discovered his gun strapped to his ankle, this little game would end ugly. He found himself unexpectedly hoping for a different outcome. His traitorous dick had already roused beneath him, responding to the sensual teases despite the threats surrounding him. Normally, having a gun pointed at him was something of a turn _off_. Tonight, though, inexplicably, its presence added a little heat to the touch of her pointy-toed shoe sliding up his inner thigh.

"This night has been an utter disappointment to me, except for finding you," she told him. "I don't like to be disappointed. You won't disappoint me, will you?"

"That depends on what you want from me," he replied.

"Bad answer. You have a sweet ass, so I'll give you another chance," she offered, drawing her spiked heel smoothly down the rear seam of his tuxedo pants. He tensed slightly at the unexpected touch, and a mildly amused grin tugged his lips. He heard her shoe clatter softly against the pavement one second before his balls practically crawled up his ass when her toes snuggled gently into them.

He'd sucked in a deep breath at her touch and now slowly let it out as the adrenalin of shock gave way to the heat of arousal washing over him. He liked speed, but his cock hadn't hardened that fast since he was a puberty-ridden teenager. A groan rumbled in his throat before he could stifle it, and his back arched tightly at the tingles pooling at the base of his spine.

He heard her soft, mocking laugh. "Very nice. You please me," she praised him.

"Glad to oblige," he grunted the sarcastic words out at her relentless teasing, wincing every time his erection pulsed against the asphalt. "Now, if you'll…please remove your… big toe from my n-nuts…nhn…I'd like to get up," he demanded.

Considering how quickly his body responded to her, he decided he'd better end this before he made an idiot of himself. It would be embarrassing to have to explain to his superiors that he got caught in a shootout with the dimwits because a pretty whore had her toes up his ass. General Ran would understand, but he'd never hear the end of it from Secretary Li. _Duty not booty_, he heard the femme-phobic secretary's stern mantra roll through his mind again.

"You're already up, naughty boy. You can't fool me," she insisted, and slid her toes down to a spot just behind his balls, continuing the same languid, lapping motions.

He sighed, partly in impatience, but also partly in pleasure. All things considered, he determined he could probably disarm her, subdue her, fuck her, get her number and be out of there within about 10 minutes. Fifteen, if he wanted to spend some time with the amazing tits he'd noticed on his brief inspection of her. However, in the killing business, being distracted for fifteen minutes in an unsecured location was deadly. This garage was as unsecured as a location got, and she was definitely distracting.

He grumbled to himself that this job required too many damn sacrifices on his part, and then coiled his muscles, ready to take her down in a quick sweep of his legs. At that point, he would see how much time he could shave off the fifteen minutes, tits included.

Then, for an instant, he felt sharp pressure firmly against the spot she'd been stroking, and his hips flexed involuntarily in a tight spasm. Suddenly, intense heat flooded his groin and jetted up his spine, bursting across his shoulders. An airless grunt erupted from his lips as his fists clenched on the pavement and his eyes rolled closed. She pressed harder in a slow circular motion, and his hips rocked with her foot's rhythmic pressure. His cock tightened so quickly, he winced and hissed through clenched teeth. Fire consumed his body and breath, and he moaned and panted as his self-control began to crumble.

"My, my, what sort of angel makes such naughty sounds?" she wondered aloud, continuing her deep, pinpoint massage. "Tell me," she murmured secretively, "do angels cum?"

"Wh-wha…the…fuuh," was all he could manage to say. He pushed his fists weakly against the pavement, trying to rally his strength, devise a strategy. The pulsing jolts gathering from all over his body and prickling at the tip of his cock sapped the energy from his muscles, and spun his thoughts into chaos. Never before in his life had he lost control of himself. What was happening to him?

"I've never seen an angel cum before," she muttered thoughtfully, pressing and releasing against him, again and again. Each inward push surged heat through his groin and spiraled fire up his spine, causing his muscles to spasm reflexively. "I could make you…right now, all over your pretty tuxedo pants. Do you want that?"

"Uuhhnnn," he groaned incoherently, and his face burned with humiliation and the tatters of rage he couldn't quite pull together. His body involuntarily clenched again as another burst of fiery sensations pulsed through him. He bit his lip until he tasted blood, intending to shock his self-control back into place. However, the pain and metallic taste turned erotic and threatened to thrust him over the edge.

"You make me _want_ to defile you, my glittering angel," she sighed, her voice a whispered song. "You're beautiful like this…so powerful…"

His gasps trapped in his throat and his body tensed and released with the waves of electricity singing through him. White lights flashed behind his eyes as his climax mounted. The last shards of his broken pride stabbed his chest every time his instinctive need to release pumped is cock against the ground, seeking to relieve the agony that made him feel alive as he'd never felt before. Soon, he wouldn't care if he humiliated himself. He just wanted to cum…to let go…let go of everything…

"Dark angel, will you take me to heaven with you?" she tormented him with another well-timed thrust. This time, though, she held it, tight into him, pushing him, pushing the pain, the pleasure, until he felt as though the heat would consume him. He couldn't breathe. He was breaking, shattering… "Are you mine? Say it."

"Yeesss," he choked on strangled breath, his lips barely above the pavement.

He had no idea he'd said anything, knew nothing but the pulsing heat that had been twisting tighter inside him, rushing him toward the release he desperately needed. He knew this feeling, so much more intense than ever before, soon, soon…ah, god, please…and…yet…yet… Was he falling away from it?—unwinding, calming, slowing, crashing…the intensity, the promise of bliss, fading…

"Poor little angel," she muttered somewhere behind him. She no longer stroked him, no longer fed his need. The torrid spasms pushing him toward the brink of ecstasy petered into tormenting quivers, pale echoes of the thundering pulses that drove him mad, and then crumbled away like shattered vows.

Seiran shuddered in disgust at himself as he heard low whimpers spill from his lips. He panted for every breath. His body was a ragged heap of tight, pulsing, restless sensations. The touch of her fingers in his hair sent shivers down his back, which did nothing to help the delicate state of his throbbing erection, waiting for that last stimulus to release it from its agony.

"I'm afraid I can't play here anymore," she said quietly, stooping down near his head. "I should warn you that I used a modified Tantric technique on you that will keep you hard, just as you are now, for about three hours or so. No matter how many times you cum, the relief will only be momentary."

She laughed at his painful groan and ruffled his hair playfully. "Now, now, you can see it as a punishment for being such a naughty angel. Or, you can consider it a reward…for the same reason. You'll think of me when you touch yourself, won't you?"

She stood up and took three steps away, but then stopped. He lifted his head slowly, and his eyes crawled up the backs of the longest, hottest legs he'd ever seen. He grimaced angrily at the hopefulness that trilled in his chest and his cock at the same time. He tried to stoke the fury mounting inside him, but his still humming arousal stole its energy to feed the pleasant buzzing in his brain.

"Of course, you did promise to take me to heaven with you, didn't you?" she added with a wistful sigh, tossing the words over her shoulder. "My place is a little closer than heaven...and my bed is softer than a cloud. You won't disappoint me, will you?"

As she walked away, his eyes feasted on her long, sexy legs as ravenously as if his mouth moved over her, coming to rest on the mesmerizing swing and bounce of her ripe, round ass. Her heels clicked against the pavement like a clock ticking, like a bomb ticking, ticking away his life, his sanity.

He'd never wanted to fuck or kill anyone so badly in his life. He'd never wanted to fuck _and_ kill the same person ever before. He would definitely fuck her first, and then decide if he still wanted to kill her after that. He wasn't sure that was the wisest choice, but at the moment, his sharply analytical brain was fighting his dick for supremacy.

He didn't believe that three-hour Tantric hard on bullshit, either, but he wouldn't need that long in any case. Considering the tender condition of his swollen cock, a couple of minutes would be more than enough. Still, he wouldn't mind a few more rounds with her. He owed her a good thrashing after what she'd just done to him.

He unsteadily climbed to his feet balancing himself against the SUV and watching her cross the garage. He just needed a few minutes to pull himself together. The garage was still quiet, so he breathed a little easier as his composure flowed back under his control. Considering how thoroughly she'd subdued him, he wondered if he shouldn't recruit her to their cause. He'd defy any man to withstand that kind of surprise attack. He pondered what else she might be hiding in her arsenal of sexual weapons. He shook his head. _Only one way to find out._

A full-on, evil grin stretched across his lips and dark intent gleamed in his eyes. Earlier, when he'd thought about how he could improvise his way out of there, he'd never considered hitching a ride with a knockout voodoo dominatrix who could give him a three-hour hard on. Sometimes, he smirked dizzily, getting lucky was just part of the job.

* * *

Disclaimer: I've taken much poetic license in torturing Seiran, so don't go trying this stuff at home and then be surprised when something important falls off. This is FICTION. I think you actually have to BE Kouchou to make this work. And it only works on Seiran because it IS Kouchou. She loves bustin' his balls, and he's such a guppy for her. But that's not to say he isn't "up" to the challenge, or that he isn't going to try to even the score. Onward, pervy readers! Thanks for RxR!


	4. Prowl

Seiran's eyes quickly scoped the immediate vicinity for threats, as he'd been trained to do before venturing into any dangerous or uncertain territory. All was quiet in the parking garage, except for the rhythmic heel clicks of his newest target sauntering across the lot, and the storm brewing under her little silver dress swaying in front of him.

_Silver, like my hair, _he smirked. _The lady has a fetish._

Tiny silver and white beads covered the dress and quivered with each of her steps, like small tremors that registered on the Richter scale of his aching cock. He imagined that his heart, or whatever he had in place of one, was just another one of those little beads, ticking in time with the swing of her luscious ass.

His breath jammed in his throat, and he felt like he was choking on his own lust. His body burned, and he could feel sweat rolling down his back under his tux jacket. He tugged off his tie, stripped off his jacket and popped open the first few buttons on his starched dress shirt to let off some steam and let in some of the night's cool air.

With rapid, darting glances to the tantalizing form slipping farther away from him, he quickly scrubbed his soiled hands on a clean corner of his jacket until they stung with an acceptable cleanliness. He brushed the jacket over his pants getting most of the surface grime off, and felt a bit more like his confident self, and less like a truck had run him down. With a hurried glimpse in the side view mirror on the SUV, he fingered his hair into a more appealing, bad-ass, I-don't-give-a-shit-if-my-hair-is-messy tousle. However, the eager glint in his normally lifeless, sea-green eyes arrested his attention.

Energy surged through his veins, and he couldn't help but laugh at his own unexpected excitement. He was fucking pathetic, he decided. Since when did a piece of ass turn him into a gushing, fumbling school boy, led around by his pecker? He grinned at the irony. Since the second her melodic voice and kiss-my-ass attitude made him forget all about tonight's mission and tonight's failure, also totally uncharacteristic of him.

She was right. This night had been a disappointment. He'd failed his mission. Not all of it, but he liked to complete missions cleanly, tie up all the loose ends. More of that OCD shit. His failure tonight pissed him off, left him restless, incomplete, insatiable. He considered that he could just run upstairs and fix all that. His mark was still available, after all.

Yet, as his eyes followed the pendulum sway of the lovely rump taunting him across the parking lot, he decided he'd have to try again some other time. He wasn't in the mood to play cops and robbers anymore. A self-deprecating grin teased his lips at this new twist of his already twisted personality. Tonight, he decided, he needed a different kind of victory, another sort of conquest—he wanted her submission.

No, that wasn't it. That's not what he wanted from that one. From her, he craved to feel that moment when her struggle against his commanding body became, not her surrender to him, but her desire for him. Mental, emotional, spiritual possession, along with the physical—the sight, the sound, the scent of her control and her release, given to him freely. Anything less would be…a disappointment.

Ah, he was a sick fuck, but he knew down to the core of his instinct that she was up to the challenge like no other woman he'd known before. He considered that he might even lose to her since she already had him oozing in his $2,000 Armani tux. He smirked with a rapacious gleam in his teal eyes and began to stalk toward her. He stuffed his grimy, worthless jacket in a heap in a trash can near the SUV, happy to be rid of the worst of the dirt he loathed. Maybe she'd take a long, hot shower with him when they got to her place.

As he closed the distance between them, he had his first opportunity to really look her over, other than at her criminally hot legs and her sinfully tempting backside. She also had a narrow waist and gently sloping, creamy white shoulders, revealed under the thin straps of her silver tank dress. Most of her black cherry-colored hair was piled up around her head in an intricate sculpture. He'd be interested to see if _her_ unusual hair color was natural.

A few strands of her hair settled loosely on her shoulders and his eyes followed the cascade down her body. Her arms were thin, but taut and defined, and ended in delicate hands with long fingers and fingernails painted to match her red shoes. A small beaded purse on a silver chain hung from one of her hands, and her revolver dangled from the other.

_Palm-sized, small caliber, lightweight_, he determined with a smirk. A girl gun—with a pink grip. Cute. She carried her little pea shooter, and herself, like she owned the world and like she took shit from no one. He shook his head, endlessly intrigued.

At last, she stopped when she reached a spot between a black motorcycle and a silver Jaguar. _Silver again. That figures,_ he grinned.

Still with her back to him, she twisted her upper body a little to hike her dress up slightly, revealing a pink garter holster strapped high on her thigh, above the lacy cuff of her silk stocking. The movement tore his attention between the breathtaking glimpse of her profile it presented and a peek at the smooth, lower curve of a naked ass cheek. She slid the compact weapon into the holster and swished her ass to let the dress tumble back into place.

Like a red flag before a bull.


	5. Assault

Seiran prowled up behind the dangerous-but-delicious-looking morsel in the silver dress like a sinuous, stalking tiger, lean and sleek. His chest pressed into her back and his hands inched up her bare arms. He exhaled a slow, hot breath from deep in his throat, the sound tangling with her soft gasp. Her body heat soaked into him and stoked the need gnawing at his senses, making his skin feel tight and suffocating.

In contrast to his hard edges and unyielding muscle, she felt as soft as satin ribbon slinking against him. The sweet and playful scent of honeysuckle, clean and young, danced around his senses, replacing the burned out air in his lungs. His weathered fingertips sculpted over her flawless, porcelain skin, molding the curves of her shoulders. He slipped his fingers under the thin straps of her dress, refusing even the smallest barrier to obstruct his touch. The whisper of a moan at her lips and the goosebumps rising on her skin under his hands ignited sparks on his body wherever he touched her.

Without a word, he bent his head to trace his lips along the nape of her neck. She gasped at the hot, feverish sweep of his lingering kisses over the kitten-soft hairs on the back of her neck. Her body shivered against him, back arched, shoulders drawn back, ample breasts strained against the beaded dress quivering over them.

"Trust me enough to put away your little pop gun?" he whispered, his mouth hovering just above her ear as he stood slightly taller than her leggy frame.

"Not in the least," she crooned, but added, "I just know how to make you behave." She snuggled back against him, the beads on her dress tinkling with the movement.

"That so?" Seiran snickered and whisked the straps of her dress down her arms, peeling the slinky fabric away to reveal her naked breasts. She gasped in shock and jerked back against him, only to be imprisoned in the cage of his strong arms.

"Beautiful," he murmured, peering over her shoulder before his tongue and teeth worked down the arching column of her neck, making her writhe against him.

Her movements thrust her lavish breasts into his rough hands, and he rolled jutting, rosy nipples, first gently, then cruelly, between his callused fingertips. She winced and cried out at his touch, and he hesitated, softening his grip, uncertain of this new, reckless urge he felt to play rough with her, instead of his usual gentleness with women. Yet, his hesitation sizzled to ash when he heard a low, hungry moan of complaint in her throat and felt her backside stroking over his erection, still sheathed inside his clothes.

He jerked up her skirt in the back, stroked her bare flesh and braced it solidly as he ground his iron-hard arousal along the sweetly curving fault line between her naked cheeks. He growled hungrily into her fragrant hair, and wondered whether he could hold out until they got to her place. He glanced over at the backseat of the Jag. Maybe he wouldn't have to wait quite that long.

His hand stole around her hip, splaying out over the front of her beaded dress, and pressed her snuggly back against his pelvis, moving smoothly in time with her gyrations. As he molded her to him, his fingers crept down the front of her dress until they curled under the hem and lifted it to just above the peak of her thighs. With his heart thumping against her back and his hot breath ruffling loosened wisps of her glossy hair, he thrust his fingers rudely between her thighs. He grumbled at finding his target shielded with a thin lace barrier.

"_Thong_," he groaned in complaint against her ear.

She mocked him with her laugh, rolling her hips so the lace teased his fingertips. "I told you, a lady needs her protection," she murmured mischievously, making his cheeks burn with his annoyance at her merciless taunting.

"Your tiny little thong, like your tiny little gun," he assured her, snaking his fingers around the lace and pressing his knuckles into her until she gasped, "won't protect you from me."

With a quick jerk of his hand, her thong snapped and he drew it from her body. He leaned over her shoulder, smirking, and lifted the tattered lace up on his palm, so she could see his prize. Pressing his masculine cheek against her silky one, he drew his hand closer, so they both detected the scent of her arousal on her thong. He heard her swallow the tension constricting her throat.

"That's French…it'll cost you," she warned, her breath shallow, stripping her words of their bite.

With a devilish, hungry smile, he asked, "French? Like this?" and darted his tongue across the delicate confection, moaning his approval.

She gasped and quivered and turned her trembling lips to brush the corner of his mouth. His tongue, fresh with a hint of her taste, parted her lips for a deep, possessive kiss, just as his fingers invaded the slick heat between her thighs. As he devoured the surrendering moan that hummed in her mouth, a soft chuckle vibrated from his lips to hers.

"Mmm…what have we here?" His fingers inside her fumbled over a small, metal ring pierced through her clit. When he felt her shudder and heard her sudden squeal at his touch, his cock thundered like a volcano ready to erupt. "Explain yourself, young lady," he hissed breathlessly while his fingers continued to gently explore this fascinating little discovery.

"It was a…ahhn...a bet," she moaned and tried to writhe away from his persistent touch. He closed his other hand around her waist and held her tight against him, trapping her, while his finger carefully nudged her clit and its alluring ornament. She tensed against him, even at such a light touch.

"Hell of a bet to lose," he remarked, his eyebrows arching upward in astonishment, his fingertip lightly tracing the curve of the ring.

"Who said I…" He suddenly flipped the ring and she stiffened and caught her breath. "…lost?"

His eyes widened at her shocking confession, and he growled against her neck, kissing and biting her skin with renewed vigor, playing relentlessly with the metal ring. His thrusts against her ass rocked her tender piercing into and out of his snatching, slipping fingertips. Her breathless laughter mixed with gasps of erotic, writhing agony, and both her hands tugged at him to pull free from his tormenting touch.

"A little sensitive here?" he asked tenderly, but then tugged quickly on the ring, making her body convulse in reflex.

"Bastard!" she hissed through gritted teeth, but any further expletives were silenced when she cried out at his merciless, prolonged pinch of one of her nipples at the same time he jerked on the ring inside her.

"Surely you know the old saying about paybacks," he muttered sweetly through her groaning whimper.

He felt her hot juices flood around his hand and his heart raced. He trod on unfamiliar ground, being so rough and unrelenting with her. How far would he go? How far could she?

"Go to hell…" she breathlessly, boldly growled and ground her ass against him, even though her motion increased the tension where he held her, making her yelp and hiss through her teeth.

His breath stifled in his throat. His nerves tightened and snapped and hummed at her tiniest movement or sound, and she had seemingly millions of them.

"Ladies first," he taunted her and thrust two fingers inside her, while his thumb continued to punish her ravaged clit.

She tossed her head back against his shoulder, and a soft, sharp shudder of breath lifted from her lips. Her gyrations had stopped, and in her stillness, he could feel the slight, rhythmic, involuntary pulses of her body against him and around his fingers inside her. The tautness of her muscles and the ecstasy lighting her face told him that she rode some magical wave of bliss.

"Cumming so quietly," he whispered against her cheek. "We can't have that."

He adjusted his fingers inside her so his thumb and forefinger pulled hard on the ring, while his remaining fingers curled inside her and zeroed in on a spot behind her clit, pressing firmly against it. She howled suddenly and her hips began to thrust onto him. Her inner muscles no longer quivered, but clutched tight around his fingers, squeezing.

"There we go," he murmured darkly.

Even as his quiet voice taunted her, contrasted with his merciless fingers tormenting her, he felt himself unraveling. The liberating decadence of his cruelty and her erotic response to it pumped adrenalin in his veins like a drug. It stripped him of the tight control he always maintained, whether fighting or fucking. The violent thrumming in his cock pushed him very near the brink of climax and the image of her bent over the Jaguar as he thrust into her goaded him to make fantasy a reality. Torn between his need and hers, he clutched her tightly to him like a lifeline on a turbulent, boiling sea, and moved with her undulating body, the scorching heat between them nearly melting them together.

"Cum hard for me," he demanded in a hiss at her ear, his tone verging on a desperate plea. "Give me everything!"

He channeled away the driving urges inside himself to the places he touched her, increasing pressure and tension on her everywhere—jerking the ring rapidly, rubbing tight circles on the spot inside her, plucking, pinching, pulling at her nipples, biting and lapping at her arching spine, grinding against her ass. She groaned loud and long, and her hips thrust forward and stiffened, and he suddenly felt hot liquid spurting against his palm and wrist as he worked his fingers roughly inside her. She whimpered pathetically and her head lolled back on his shoulder as she pumped two more spurts of her juices against his hand and then collapsed against him.

For a few moments of shocked uncertainty, he simply held her, one arm wrapped around her waist, supporting her weight against his chest. They each gasped for every breath, their bodies heaving against each other with the effort. His fingers remained inside her, and he felt the slight quivers of aftershocks from her climax rippling along her inner walls. His raging erection answered each one.

"Well, well," he muttered breathlessly in stunned astonishment, barely even aware he'd spoken aloud. "You even cum like a tough guy."


End file.
